


A Sun that Doesn't Burn

by stirlingphoenix



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Drama, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Musician Lance (Voltron), Romance, Romantic Fluff, Shance Alternate Realities Big Bang 2018, Supernatural Elements, Vampire Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 22:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stirlingphoenix/pseuds/stirlingphoenix
Summary: Shiro thinks he’s got this immortality ‘thing’ all figured out. He lives a quiet life, only leaving the comfort of his home on occasion to check in on the bar he owns, a safe haven for fellow vampires. It's there he meets Lance McClain, an aspiring musician and perhaps more noteworthy, a mortal who either has a death wish, or just happens to be as clueless as he is beautiful. Regardless, what starts out as a mission to make sure Lance doesn't get himself killed quickly evolves into something far more meaningful than Shiro could have ever imagined. Being with Lance breaks every rule he's ever set in place to protect himself and the innocent mortals he lives amongst, but Lance's smile proves enough to leave Shiro weak and unable to do anything other than give chase. Shiro soon learns however, that Lance's safety may not be their biggest issue, especially when it becomes obvious that Lance is more likely to accidentally poison him with homemade garlic knots than he is of losing control. It seems silly, but there’s no rulebook on vampires he can give Lance, and when Shiro’s a little too smitten to notice what Lance seasons his food with half the time, the possibility is more likely than anyone cares to admit.





	A Sun that Doesn't Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Shance AU Bang!
> 
> This fic is accompanied by two incredible works of art done by two talented artists. Elryk and Fell are amazing people and it was a blast working with them!
> 
> Fell's work can be found on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bq8PEuZh28t/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/fellfromtheskys/status/1069712414583619588). 
> 
> Elyrk's work can be found on [Tumblr](http://elryk-vail.tumblr.com/post/180786240103/my-second-piece-for-shanceaubang-this-time-for).

The place hasn't changed much from a few months ago when he last checked in. It never does—the same dark building hidden away from the light of day, known only to the creatures of the night who know where to look, the same bar, same tables and stools, same stage, same everything. He's thought to remodel on more than one occasion, or at the very least do something to spruce up the joint when a total renovation seems like too much effort. But thinking about a change is a far cry from making said alteration, and every time the notion crosses his mind, he inevitably says, 'to hell with it’ and lets life carry on as it always does.

At this point, the bar pretty much runs itself.

He supposes that's why he's stopped coming around as much. With a competent staff to keep things in order, there really isn't much for Shiro to do, especially when he's not too keen on hanging around at the bar when he can easily drink from the comfort of his own home.

It’s only by chance that Shiro decides to be ‘social’ for the first time in months (or possibly closer to a year, time’s long since lost its meaning and he no longer bothers to keep track of it) and make a rare appearance at the bar for no other reason than because he’s grown weary of staring at the same four walls of his study, or the drawing room, or even his bedroom—wherever he happens to be within the lonesome confines of his home, it all blends into more of the same after awhile. If nothing else, at the bar he’ll still be surrounded by a quiet atmosphere along with individuals like himself, who come for a decent drink, and a perhaps a good conversation, all while getting the change of scenery he so desires.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” this evening’s bartender greets him with a smile as he pulls out a glass and begins to fix him a drink. He’s one of his ‘newer’ employees with a mere two decades of service under his belt, but he’s still the only bartender Shiro can trust to make him a cocktail in the exact way he likes it. At this point, Shiro’s so far-removed from the inner-workings of his own establishment, that he’s unaware of who’s scheduled when, so it’s only by a stroke of luck that he finds him working on this fine night.

“Thought I should check in,” Shiro replies, not caring to explain he’s been about to go stir-crazy at home.

“Of course.” He doesn’t say anything more about it, but from his tone, it’s obvious he’s already gotten the impression Shiro had come out of boredom, rather than a sense of obligation. With a knowing grin playing upon his lips, the barman slides the glass across the smooth surface of the bar and right into Shiro’s hand. “You picked a good night to come in,” he adds off-handedly as if he’d only just remembered. “We have a performance scheduled for tonight. Should be starting any minute now.”

“Ah, that’s right.” Shiro nods his head in thanks as he takes his drink, bourbon laden with a splash of O positive, and diverts his attention towards the stage, where tonight's entertainment is about to make his debut. Shiro vaguely remembers scheduling him over the phone a month or so back. As he recalls, he’d been caught off guard by the entire incidence—usually, anyone interested in using his stage as a venue would contact his manager, who would subsequently tell them to do as they pleased. As with everything else with the bar, scheduling entertainment was kept low-key and live performances were intermittent, but enjoyable when they occurred, nonetheless.

Tonight’s individual, for whatever reason, had taken an entirely different route in getting his event booked, and had somehow found Shiro’s direct number. It hadn’t been an unpleasant conversation by any means, just surprising—Shiro remembers his voice, young and enthusiastic, probably a fledgling vampire still figuring out what to do with the infinite amount of time immortality provides him, or perhaps a penchant for music had stayed with him after death.

Such musings inspire Shiro's mind to wander down a well-traveled path regarding who he, and others like him used to be in their past lives. After so long, Shiro hardly remembers who he was or what he used to be involved with—he only knows it’s a far cry from how he spends his immortal life. He recalls wanting a fresh start—a burning desire that made him leave everything behind and begin anew. As the finer details of his vampiric life came into place, the more specific elements that shaped his humanity faded into the shadows, each memory slipping away from his mind as if they'd never existed at all.

A sudden _thump, thump_ hits his senses with an ear-splitting timbre, simultaneously putting him on edge and bringing his reminiscing to an abrupt (yet not unwelcomed) end. It's been at least a lifetime since he's had a night out, and even longer since he'd last heard the one-of-a-kind sound that even after so many years, Shiro could never mistake it for anything else. At first, Shiro thinks he must be imagining it. The sound is so soft and subtle, he surely wouldn't have noticed it if not for the crowd settling down at that exact moment. He hears it again, only this time it's far more distinct than before, pounding in his ears over and over, just like a—

a heartbeat. A live, human, heartbeat in his bar? Shiro shudders to think how this could have happened—it only takes a second of thought for him to connect the dots, but by then it's already too late. Before he even has the chance to move, the red velvet curtain covering the stage begins to part, revealing the only living being in a bar riddled with the undead.

Even when the situation demands his immediate and complete attention, Shiro realizes he’s not the only one with their sights set on Lance. He can feel dozens of hungry eyes all trained on Lance, watching his every move like he’s a fine cut of meat dangling in front of a den of hungry lions.

“Don't worry,” Shiro raises a hand, effectively telling his employee to stand down. “I've got this one.”

It’s not often Shiro feels the need to flex his muscles and demonstrate his power, but with a bar full of hungry vampires just itching to sink their teeth into the only living soul in the room, Shiro knows he’ll need to do something. He'd prefer if that something didn't end in a physical confrontation, but if the situation calls for a little violence, Shiro's certainly not above a fight, especially not if someone's life is on the line. As a vampire of old, he understands the primal urge to feed on any living soul that dares come close enough as much as anyone else, but he also knows better than to let those instincts take charge and consume the soul he still has. There will always be those who won't put the same level of consideration or care into how they live their immortal lives and 'to each their own’ as the saying goes, but as far as Shiro's concerned, not when human life is involved, and especially not in his bar.

And so, he moves. Bracing his left hand against the bar, Shiro uses the balance he acquires as leverage to lift himself up and swing his legs over the ledge in one, practiced motion. His steel-toed boots hit the wooden floor with a harsh clang that reverberates through the floorboards as Shiro makes his way across the lounge and over to the stage, his aura growing darker with each step he takes.

When he reaches the stage, Shiro realizes he hasn't given much thought to how he plans to handle this situation. The instinctual urge to fight slowly dissipates from this being, leaving him with a cautious air of calmness. He’d prefer his patrons have enough sense about them to back away while the choice is still technically theirs, and therefore wouldn't have to make a scene (as if denying anyone a fresh 'meal’ would put him in the wrong), and if acting tough is enough to get the job done, then he's not about to complain.

Now, if only getting the main attraction off stage without raising suspicions would be as simple. It’s already too late to make him leave when the curtain's already been pulled, (at least not without creating that scene he still wants to avoid) but every half-baked scheme he’s come up within the past five seconds (each one more chaotic and head-turning than the last) vanishes faster than it had appeared the second Shiro dares to look up at the stage and allow his gaze to fall upon a blue-eyed angel disguised as a handsome young man. While Shiro's never considered himself an expert in judging someone's age, he figures he can't be older than his mid-twenties—although he refuses to stamp his estimate with a real number.

 _He’s,_ Shiro struggles to find one single word that adequately describes the living soul that stands before him. ‘Beautiful’, ‘charming’, ‘stunning’, all come to mind but fail in giving justice to the sensations that overwhelm him—if he’d been able to breathe, his breath surely would have been taken away by now. But then again, the lack of an apt depiction isn’t entirely Shiro's fault, not when merely glancing at this man’s ethereal beauty causes his brain to short circuit and renders his mind a frazzled mess.

The discordant, yet faint 'tap, tap’ of two fingers drumming against the microphone brings Shiro out of his inner thoughts and back into the matter at hand, where his gaze lands on the man, who if he was still alive, would have taken his breath away.

“Good evening," he begins without a touch of nervousness lacing his tone, one that might normally accompany the act of being the center of attention in front of an unfamiliar crowd. In fact, there isn't a thing about this young man's demeanor that gives away even a trace of unease, much less any sort of fear that he rightfully should possess, and surely would, Shiro muses, if he knew what kind of audience he'd garnered for himself on this cool, autumn evening.

“I’m Lance McClain, and tonight, I’m lucky enough to play for you all.” The smile never leaves his face as his thumb strums the strings of his guitar. "This is a number I like to call, 'Midnight Moonlight’.” And without further preamble, Lance begins his song.

‘Captivated,’ doesn’t begin to scratch the surface in describing how Lance’s voice strikes Shiro at his very core, transcending him to a new, seraphic plane of existence, where the darkness tethering him to his afterlife fads away into nothingness and illuminates a path he'd never seen before.

His melodic voice pours through the speakers, showering Shiro with an otherworldly sound powerful and all-consuming enough to bring Shiro’s current task of getting Lance off stage and out of harm’s way to an immediate (albeit temporary) halt. Try as he might, his body remains firmly in place, as if there’s a disconnect between his cerebellum and the nerves that control movement. With his feet frozen to the floor and his hands placed on the edge of the stage, Shiro feels as if he’s been captured by the fabled siren’s call, rendering him motionless and unable to save himself as he listens to an exquisite harmony that makes him forget where he is, or more pertinently, that he has no means of escape, that his lapse will bring about his demise.

Even if that is true, even if Lance is, in fact, some sort of nefarious creature whose sole objective is to lure everyone within earshot into a false sense of tranquility and jubilance, only to steal away that carefully crafted semblance of peace at the last moment and ruin them all—Shiro can’t help but think he’d meet his end with a smile on his face.

On some level, Shiro knows better. He reasons with himself that it would be unforgivably rude to interrupt Lance's performance mid-song, and decides he should at least let him finish a number before intervening—but when the song ends, another begins, and Shiro still doesn't move. Even the part of himself that urges him onward is silent in Lance’s presence; he simply can't help it, not when Lance so effortlessly calls out to him, coaxing him closer and closer to an end that never comes.

As the performance goes on, Shiro's mind clears just enough, allowing him to hear beyond the alluring angel's call that is Lance's voice, and finally listen to Lance's song. The lyrics prove themselves a sharp contrast to the upbeat tune he plays, as if sharing a secret with anyone who takes a moment to listen and understand the depth of his soul.

Or at least that's Shiro's interpretation. He can't quell the image of Lance hunched over a roll of parchment, scribbling away by candlelight into the late hours of the night. As far-fetched as he finds such a notion, Shiro has no doubt that each word in Lance's song holds significance in some fashion—even if his insight eventually proves itself askew.

Regardless of whether he earns a complete grasp of Lance's song, Shiro realizes he's positively smitten with Lance himself. In spite of their surroundings, Shiro feels like he's the sole person in the room, and Lance's song exists for him and him alone.

The performance ends as quickly it begins, leaving Shiro with a hollow feeling within his chest. Shiro's core temperature perpetually exists on the chilly side, but when Lance flashes one last smile at the audience and says his farewells before heading backstage, Shiro feels like he’s been hit with a sudden gust of winter air, as if Lance has taken away the only shred of warmth he’s known in this lifetime.

 _It’s not over yet_ , Shiro reminds himself, and only then does Lance’s enchantment relinquish him from its all-encompassing grasp and allow him a moment's clarity. He’s quick in following Lance to ensure any patron who otherwise might have felt inclined to go after him won’t bother anymore (at least not if they know what’s good for them), yet he maintains a safe enough distance to keep Lance from discovering him.

When the door to the backstage dressing room closes with a soft ‘click’, Shiro casts his hesitation to the wayside while still retaining a reasonable sense of caution. No matter how much he assures himself of his choice, that his actions stem from a genuine desire to ensure Lance finds his way home safely and awakens to the sun shining down on his warm flesh the next morning—there’s still that cynical, malicious piece of himself disguised as his sense of reason that insists his intentions aren’t nearly so pure. Whether Shiro wants to admit it or not, he’s exactly like his blood-thirsty brethren—perhaps even worse, at least they’ve been true to themselves all along. In spite of his innermost darkness looming within the deepest depths of his soul, telling him over and over again his efforts are for naught, that try as he might, he’ll never escape what he is—the bloodlust he’s worked so hard to suppress survives as the smallest of flames, flickering feebly in an endless sea of black, yet waiting for its chance to return to glory and burn him.

“It’s not like that,” Shiro tries again, his voice barely above a whisper. His words are weak and provide no semblance of relief, yet the notion proves just enough to pull Shiro out of his chaotic state of self-sabotage and destruction and reaffirm himself. Despite his own treacherous mind providing all the evidence to the contrary, he can do this, he knows it.

Before he can change his mind and back out entirely, Shiro claims a breath he doesn’t need and takes that last step, putting him squarely in front of the door. Lance’s heartbeat thumps steadily on the other side, the constant, unwavering pulse provides a small glimpse of comfort to his frenzied mind and strengthens his resolve, prompting him to reach out and knock against the solid wood door with the back of his hand. Even now, his efforts prove tentative in the way his knuckles hit the surface, making him wonder whether Lance can hear him.

“Come in?” Lance’s voice is muffled through the door, however, a new brand of shyness rings loud and clear in Shiro’s ears.

He almost feels bad about disturbing Lance—the keyword being _almost_. With the performance over, Shiro, while still wholly enchanted with Lance, is no longer subject to his sweet siren can call, and has enough wits about him to focus on what should have been his main priority from the beginning—Lance’s safety. Taking another deep breath (an old habit that’s difficult to break when an intrusive bout of nervousness gets the better of him) Shiro opens the door just enough to slide in before closing the door just as quickly, leaving him alone with Lance, the man with a voice of an angel that if he’s not careful, could very well be the death of him.

“I—” Shiro can’t help but berate himself at that moment. Several lifetimes worth of, well, living, and he’s yet to figure out the etiquette of holding a proper conversation. He’d like to think that Lance, standing before him only a few feet away in his magnificent beauty plays a part in his awkward demeanor, but deep down, Shiro knows that would be placing blame somewhere it doesn’t belong.

“That was some performance—in a good way, I mean,” Shiro adds a second later when he realizes such a comment could go either way. “Really good, nice job out there, I mean,” he trails off before managing to say something equally as lame, or worse, not that Shiro knows if that’s even possible. But if it is, he would surely figure it out.

“Oh." Maybe Shiro's only imagining it, but he thinks he catches a certain glimmer in Lance’s eyes, one that suggests he hadn’t expected anyone to approach him, much less say anything positive. “Thank you,” Lance adds after a moment as a soft shade of pink dusts his cheeks.

Shiro swears up and down the blush covering Lance’s face, quickly spreading all the way to the tips of his ears and down his neck, is contagious enough to fluster him as well, or at least it would have been, if blood still coursed through his body and put his embarrassment on full display like a human’s, but then again, Shiro never said there weren’t one or two perks to being a vampire.

“I’m Takashi Shirogane,” Shiro says, thinking to introduced himself only after a few agonizingly slow moments creep by, when he realizes that technically it’s his turn to respond. “But most people call me—”

“Shiro,” Lance interjects, a soft smile appearing on his lips. “We spoke on the phone a couple months ago, right?”

“We did, yes.” Knowing Lance remembers their conversation makes Shiro happier than it probably should, but he can’t help it. It’s simple, and can’t possibly have any sort of significance tied to it, but the fact, as meager as it is, is still something for Shiro to hold onto and keep close to his non-beating heart.

“It's nice to meet you," he pauses for a second before correcting himself, “you know, in person,” Shiro adds quickly, his own smile looking a bit sheepish as he extends a hand out to Lance.

“Likewise," he pauses for a second before his eyes widen, as if he'd forgotten something. "I'm Lance.

Shiro nods in recognition, prompting Lance to go on. “Thanks for giving me this chance. It’s been a little while since I’ve managed to get a gig, so you know.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Shiro cuts Lance off before he has the chance to belabor his point. A scenario that started out as little more than a ‘hassle’ as Shiro kindly puts it, turned into one of the most memorable moments of his life. On the surface, it isn't anything special, a simple chance meeting that he would have missed if not for the spontaneous bout of boredom that had all but coerced him out of his home earlier that evening.

“Truly,” Shiro tries again, hoping to sound a little more eloquent than he did just a few moments ago. “You were a delight to listen to, and,” Shiro stops before getting ahead of himself and offering his place as a venue for any of Lance’s future performances. The decision will cost him more smiles than he cares to count, but he can’t subject Lance to a horde of vampires, all itching for a taste of his blood—not on a repeat basis, anyway.

“How long have you been playing?" The question sounds ludicrous as it hits his ears, but he’s always been the type to keep a conversation going, rather than letting an awkward silence settle between whoever he’s speaking with that evening and himself—even if all he can generate is small talk.

“Oh wow," Lance begins, running a hand through his soft brown hair. “I need a second to think about that," Lance lets out in a hum, tapping the pen to his chin in thought. “Must be twenty-five years at least—ever since I was big enough to hold my Dad's all junior guitar I guess,” Lance shrugs before adding, "can't remember the days my fingers weren't strumming a few strings and making up new tunes.”

“Amazing," Shiro says, more to himself than to Lance.

As Lance continues with his story, he goes into vivid detail with his music and the experiences that have led him here. His vibrant, thorough descriptions stir awake Shiro’s own recollections, bringing fond memories of his time with a grand piano back to the forefront of his mind.

Back then, when he still had the means of playing to his heart’s content, it had all started as nothing more than a perusal for a new hobby, something to fill his newfound time with. Shiro fails to notice the corners of his lips curling upwards into the softest of smiles as he recalls the joy he used to feel, letting his own soul soar freely into the abyss—when his fingers moved against a set of ivory keys, Shiro had been able to forget who he was and feel like he was alive again, if only for a few precious seconds. 

But as a musician of sorts himself, Shiro knows better than to take Lance’s cheerful disposition at face value. Despite the jovial tone Lance uses, Shiro can only imagine the amount of time Lance must have toiled away on his guitar, the endless hours he's surely spent perfecting his chords and piecing together the right set of notes to create a new, cohesive melody that belongs to him. He hardly needs to spare Lance’s hands a glimpse to see the calloused skin covering his fingertips, not when his earlier performance serves as more than enough evidence of his hard, tireless work.

“I know music isn’t the safest career choice, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever been able to see myself doing with my life. So here I am, going from show to show until I’m lucky enough to cross paths with some exec from a big record company.” A soft chuckle laced with the slightest hint of uncertainty escapes his lips, as if there’s a part of Lance that’s already begun to doubt himself. “That's the plan anyway,” Lance trails off, leaving that same bout of skepticism hanging in the air.

“Sorry," Lance says suddenly, his gaze meeting Shiro’s, as if to gauge his expression. “You must be bored to death listening to me ramble on about my life story,” he adds quickly, making his sudden spell of embarrassment all too apparent.

"Not at all.” Shiro finds his response a bit too quick for comfort, however, he refuses to dwell on something he can't change, nor does he pay any mind to Lance's interesting choice of words. Instead, Shiro suppresses the urge to express his delight in seeing Lance so easily confide in him.

“Things will turn around for you, I’m certain of it.” Shiro knows exactly how half-hearted and insincere he sounds, but he means every word of encouragement. 

“I should probably be going,” Lance notes after catching a glimpse of the hour displayed in brightly glowing numbers on his phone, almost sounding like he resents the inescapable passing of time, or perhaps that he’d wished he’d not bothered to look in the first place. “It's later than I thought."

Shiro lets out a soft, inaudible sigh. Not only does he share in Lance’s regret over the late hour, but he’s also acutely aware that he has a little over an hour before sunrise. As much as he never wants this moment to end, the fact that Lance brings the issue up first plays in his favor.

“May I walk you home?” The question tumbles from his lips before he can think to stop himself, though he knows himself well enough to admit he would've asked even if he had taken a second to consider a proper response.

“I wouldn't want to inconvenience you,” Lance declines his offer off with a simple wave of his hand.

“It's no trouble,” Shiro insists, doing his best to maintain a relaxed, easygoing composure. “I'd be happy to.”

He tells himself it's for Lance's safety, that no one else in the vicinity has this naive mortal's best interests at heart, especially when he knows with absolute certainty that most have the exact opposite in mind. So, he has to take it upon himself and ensure Lance gets home alive. Shiro repeats that same logic in his mind over and over again like a mantra—if he says it enough, perhaps he'll start to believe his own facade.

The look Lance gives him after turning back around would have brought Shiro's heart to an abrupt halt if it still moved. At that moment, his body seems to remember certain physical sensations he was no longer capable of—he recalls what it had felt like to hear his heart pounding so rapidly that he feared it might burst from his chest at any moment, the raw, unbridled sense of fascination overwhelming him to the very core and rendering him a total disaster, unable to think about anything other than his newfound—

 _Crush? Infatuation?_ Shiro dismisses them both without a second thought. Finding the right way to describe this unfamiliar phenomenon proves itself quite the challenge, and try as he might, Shiro fails to pinpoint the exact word that paints an accurate image of what he means to say.

A sound voice that simultaneously holds what little remains of his rationale and grows softer with each passing moment insists that his efforts are in vain, that none of it really matters. His feelings, as he decides to call them, are nothing more than a ridiculous flight of fancy—one that will surely disappear once he’s alone and his mind has a free moment to clear itself of foolish dreams that are not meant to be.

And as one antagonistic voice of reason wasn’t enough to grate on Shiro’s nerves, a far less voice logical, yet equally hostile voice cries out to him, demanding to be heard. It insists Shiro let go of nonsensical whims and focus on what matters most—self-preservation.

At the very least, this line of thought gives Shiro the benefit of the doubt, and considers the perils that might befall him, which is far more than he can say for the loudest, most incessant side of him, sparing him nothing in regards to the gory, blood-soaked imagery that possesses just enough potential to make itself a reality if Shiro isn’t careful.

Shiro doesn’t have the gall to lie to himself completely and claim his actions as pure and without motive, but for once, he gives himself the benefit of the doubt and reasons that given the circumstances, his desires coincide with Lance's best interests. Escorting Lance home may have its own set of personal challenges, however, Shiro would like to consider his company a step above sending Lance home alone and inadvertently subjecting him to any of the other less-than amiable members of his own kind.

“I mean,” Lance pauses, his voice tinged with uncertainty, and if Shiro's not mistaken, a touch of longing tails the end of his question, as if he can’t bring himself to admit his desire for company. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”

“Absolutely.” At this point, Shiro thinks it will be a miracle if he doesn’t scare Lance off with how enthusiastic he sounds. He won't make excuses for his new, uncharacteristic behavior; however, he struggles to recall the last time he found himself so eager to befriend another living soul. “No trouble at all,” he adds quickly, his tone notably more composed.

“Okay then," Lance concedes, hesitation riddling his tone as if he's still unsure of his choice, or perhaps takes qualm with the nonsensical notion of Shiro unnecessarily going out of his way for him. “Just so we're clear, it's not because I'm scared or anything.”

"The thought never crossed my mind,” Shiro replies with a smile and complete honesty. Lance has already proven himself fearless to a fault, and while on some level Shiro admires his genuine, perhaps oversimplified brand of courage, he has a healthy dose of common sense and a reality check that more than makes up for Lance’s apparent lack thereof, and he's aware that Lance isn't in the clear just yet.

“I appreciate this.” Lance offers him a smile of gratitude as he turns back to packing his belongings. “I just need to gather my things, then we can go.”

Shiro replies with a brief nod that goes unseen with Lance's back turned to him, however, his agreement needs no voice. Even so, Shiro itches for something to do or for some way to help Lance while he puts everything in order. He finds his solution in Lance’s guitar, sitting quietly on the floor near are a small coffee table. Looking down, his dark gaze meets his idle hands, the fingers of his left twitch from the lack of use, yearning for something to do while his right, sheathed from the world with a black velveteen glove stays still and lifeless.

“I’ll get this,” Shiro says abruptly, shakes his head, refusing to let his mind wander down the shadow-ridden path he’s been down so many times before and neglects to ask as he takes a step forward. His left, ungloved hand reaches out for the guitar. The leather-bound handle is cool to the touch as his fingers slip underneath and fixing themselves against grooves worn into the material over years of use. With a firm grip on the case, Shiro’s just about to lift when his gaze shifts up, only to find Lance staring down at him with an unsettling look on his face, one that makes him freeze where he stands.

“Something wrong?"

“Not really,” Lance answers with a shake of his head. “Normally I wouldn't let anyone touch Delilah, but,” Shiro likens it a miracle he manages to refrain from any sudden movement that with his luck, surely would have caused the guitar from toppling over, “something tells me I can trust you. Take good care of her, 'kay?”

“Delilah?” It takes a few seconds (far longer than it should have if Shiro’s being completely honest) but the dots finally connect in his mind, and he realizes Lance is referring to his guitar. “Oh.” The snap of his fingers gives sound to the otherwise inaudible ‘click’ in his head. “That’s a pretty name,” is the only reply he has to offer as he tightens hold on the case’s leather straps once more, taking care with the way he carries Lance's prized possession, or Delilah, as he's just learned. 

The bout of genuine laughter Lance offers him in response helps Shiro feel at ease as he leads Lance through the hall and out into the dimly-lit street. The lack of street lights gives the gibbous moon above them an iridescent radiance that in turn, illuminates the Earth below and sets a warm atmosphere for the otherwise cool fall night. However, with only a handful of working lamp posts guiding their trek, Shiro feels thrice as justified in his decision to walk Lance home. While Lance appears as oblivious about his situation as ever, Shiro's all too aware of the danger lurking within the shadows of each alleyway they cross. With his anxiety growing steadily as he and Lance continue down the street, Shiro isn't surprised by a bout of paranoia and its valiant efforts in getting the best of him, but even as he tells himself it's all in his head, he can't escape the way his skin crawls, as if they're being watched.

The suspicion, however legitimate it may be, vanishes almost as quickly as it comes. Once again, Shiro finds solace in the tenderness of Lance’s voice, as if his gentle tone means to call out and banish his concerns.

“I know it sounds dumb,” Lance begins, “but naming the guitar was another one of those things my Dad told me when he was teaching me the chords—that every instrument has a soul and a story to tell, that it's the real artist, playing its tune through the vibrations flowing through its player's fingers, inevitably only sharing only a fraction of its tale. When a guitar, or any instrument for that matter, depends on someone to give it voice, we as the musicians have a responsibility to take our practice seriously and give whatever we choose to play our all.”

Although Shiro’s never heard such a colorful personification of an instrument, he finds himself agreeing with Lance’s explanation. As Lance speaks, Shiro’s recalls a handful of instances where he had experienced similar emotions. Even when it’s been ages since he’d last placed his fingers upon a keyboard, the satisfaction he’d felt as he let his soul flow freely from his fingertips and into the keys, letting the piano itself act as his voice and play a tune that put who he was on full display. Only in those moments did Shiro ever feel as if he could be seen and understood all in the same breath.

Or least that’s how he used to feel, back when he could still play. Shiro refuses to dwell on what once was and what will never be again, and although Lance remains unaware, he proves himself only too happy to help strengthen Shiro’s resolve as he carries on with his story.

"He'd always end that little spiel by looking me in the eyes and saying: 'Practice hard, Lancito. You do right by your guitar and help it tell its story, then it'll help you tell yours too—it'll even tell you its name, you just have to know how to listen’,” Lance adds a moment later almost as an afterthought, a wistful note lacing voice as if the recollection leaves him with one or two bittersweet memories in their wake.

“He was right,” Lance speaks up again before a disquieting silence has the chance to settle over them, which is just as well when Shiro's at a loss for words. “There are just some things we can't explain with words, and feelings that elude description,” he trails off, undoubtedly leaving a great deal of emotion left unsaid yet not unfelt.

"You know?" Again, Shiro hears that note of anguish lacing Lance’s speech, as if this is yet another example where he believes his thoughts would be better understood through the strings of his guitar. 

“I do,” is Shiro's solemn reply. A small part of him wonders if his concise reply comes off as half-hearted or tasteless, but he knows instances where fewer words make more of an impact occur from time to time, and Shiro thinks the notion holds true now.

More than anything, Shiro wishes he could reach in and banish away the hurt he sees all too clearly within Lance's soul. _It's not fair_ , he thinks, for someone such as Lance, who's kind, compassionate heart calls out to him, yearning for some sort of relief—if only Shiro knew how to accomplish such a feat. For better or worse, the time to pinpoint and delve into the heart of the issue slips away with each step they take that lands them closer to the front door of a building Shiro suspects might lead to Lance's apartment.

“So, this is me." There's a touch of wistfulness in Lance's voice as he gestures towards the exact building in question, they're approaching far too quickly for Shiro's liking. “Sorry for being such a downer at the end, I'm usually a lot more cheerful than this, promise,” Lance finishes his apology with a rather sheepish grin as he rubs the back of his neck, emphasizing his embarrassment.

“Don’t mention it,” Shiro is quick to interject, not wanting to hear another word of remorse. “I really enjoyed talking with you.” He’s careful to omit how incredible it feels to partake in a real conversation, to speak with his heart, and hear his partner’s heart in turn. The fact that it’s Lance just makes everything sweeter.

“We should do this again sometime.” The notion passes through Shiro’s lips before he’s able to stop himself, and to his chagrin, Lance doesn’t give him the chance to take it back.

“Maybe right now?” Lance gestures towards the building before reaching out for the door handle. “Would you like to come in?” Lance asks, holding the door open with one hand and gesturing towards the door with the other.

“I,” Shiro wants to say ‘yes’. More than anything else, he wishes he could throw caution to the wind and forget about the countless limitations that will inevitably dictate his answer. If he isn’t barred from this entrance, he’s all but certain he will encounter an issue in front of Lance’s actual flat. The rules may be a bit fuzzy when it comes to apartment complexes and hotels, his restrictions always catch up to him one way or another, and right now, Shiro finds himself unprepared to handle the consequences that might befall him for a single attempt.

“I really shouldn’t,” Shiro tries, wondering who he's really trying to convince with such a lackluster response.

“Are you sure?” Shiro can hardly handle the second invitation. He knows his personal interests all too well and he's more than capable of handling himself—of course, that doesn't mean he's immune to Lance's charms—far from it.

That’s not remotely fair, and they both know it. Yet, Shiro can’t blame Lance for asking—it’s a rejection neither of them wants to hear, but with the sun coming up in less than an hour’s time, Shiro finds himself hard pressed for an alternative.

“Yes." He tries to make his answer sound definitive, like he's made up his mind and there's no going back on it, “Yes, I am sure,” he punctuates his decision with a sigh of resignation. "But I'd really like to see you again."

“When and where?" Lance asks, all too quick in taking him up on his offer, much to Shiro’s delight.

“Say, my place on Saturday?" The words tumble from his lips—it’s bold, borderline irrational, something he'd never considered before, but even so, the inclination to take any of it back escapes him. He cannot deny a certain thrill exists in the throes of spontaneity, and for the first time in his life (immortal or otherwise) Shiro likens himself ready to start his trek down an unknown path of new, albeit breathtaking experiences.

That is, of course, if Lance will give him the time of day, or night, as it were.

“I like the sound of that." And just like that, the gloom overshadowing him dissipates into nothing, leaving Lance's entire being aglow.

“It's a date." He knows it's cliché, but Shiro couldn't care less with the raw excitement running through his veins like the blood flow he hasn’t felt in ages.

“See you then, handsome.” Lance punctuates his farewell with a gentle caress to his cheek before retrieving his guitar from Shiro's hold and stepping foot inside his building.

“Goodnight." Shiro's says just before the door falls shut behind Lance. His hand acts on its own accord, brushing against his cold, clammy flesh he swears Lance left the slightest trace of warmth in the wake of his affections—it’s been so long since he's felt so much as the touch of another human being that it takes a certain amount of strength to stave off a steadily growing bout of desperation that threatens to ruin him.

 _It's for the best,_ his stifling sense of reason supplies, although Shiro has a difficult time getting himself to believe that. Shiro's never found himself subject to a temptation he couldn't do away with through logic and sheer willpower easily enough, but then again, Lance has already proven himself far more than a whimsical desire.

It's only after Lance disappears behind the door that he realizes Saturday is an entire three days away from now. Shiro hadn't really thought about how long he'd be forcing himself to wait when suggesting Saturday, he'd been far too preoccupied with being smooth, prompting him with the usual lines one might hear in any romance movie, where of course Saturday is more often than not, the date night of choice.

 _And look what that gets you,_ he berates himself, and none-too-kindly at that. Shiro decides then—there's a fine line between aiming to impress and being downright ridiculous—one he figures he'd crossed the second he dared to approach Lance and say 'Hello’.

At times, Shiro finds himself staring at the old grandfather clock in his study, watching each agonizing second tick by with supreme disinterest as he wonders how time can be so dreadfully stagnant, while at others, Shiro feels like it was just yesterday when science unveiled the first round of antibiotic treatments, hailed as a miracle drug and meant to cure any ailment, when in reality nearly a century had passed since that novel discovery, and those scientific revelations had been surpassed by newer, and more powerful medicines made to adhere to the challenges evolution and disease that continually threaten humanity.

As he trudges back towards his home on the other side of town, Shiro already knows what time has in store for him, for it is never kind when he has an event to look forward to, and even less so when waiting for said affair proves itself a true test of patience. For the first time, Shiro doubts he's up for the challenge, not when he feels his sanity slipping away with the mere notion of watching the seconds tick by on a starless night.


End file.
